


Fashion. Police.

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BAMF Stiles, Cop Stiles Stilinski, Death Threats, Evil Kate Argent, Fashion Designer Peter Hale, Flirting, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sexual Tension, There's A Tag For That, animal rights protesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: In which Stiles is a cop with an interest in menswear, Peter's the owner of a menswear store with a definite interest in Stiles, and why is there always some maniac running around throwing tins of red paint and making death threats?Fashion, baby.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fashion. Police.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242838) by [HDHale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/pseuds/HDHale). 



> I was given absolutely stunning art by [HDHale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242838) to work with, and I had so much fun writing this!  
> Getting assigned HD was like winning the lottery, and he let me pretty much do what I wanted, which was a bonus! You should all click the link and leave him kudos. I hope the fic lived up to your expectations, Harry!

 

 

Peter lets out a sigh of frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. A low growl escapes him as he looks at the red paint marring his shopfront.

**_FUR IS MUDER!_**  The twin slogans painted across both windows helpfully point out. Peter snorts at that. Some people really are ignorant, as well as being rude. Not only have they spelt _murder_ wrong, they’ve painted over the gold leaf that edges his store’s name. It’s the second time in six months it’s happened, and Peter knows from previous experience that the gold will chip and crack under the onslaught of the cleaning process, and he’ll have to replace the whole damned thing.

Again.

Fucking protesters.

* * *

 

 

He dials the police station to report the vandalism, and he’s gratified when the dispatcher tells him that they’re sending out Officer Stilinski and he should be there in ten minutes.  Really, someone of Peter’s stature in the business world _should_ have the sheriff handling his complaint – it’s only proper.

He unlocks the store and lets himself in. He stops and regards himself in the mirror, a tiny frown marring his features. He’d been in a hurry this morning and hadn’t quite gotten his outfit right, and now he needs something to finish his look – the sweater he’s wearing with the pattern of wolves and trees looks stark on its own.

He looks over the racks thoughtfully, and with a small smile, selects a gorgeous soft fur scarf and drapes it round his neck, settling it till it looks like a baby sloth is sleeping there.  After all, what’s the point of owning one of the premier werewolf fashion stores in Beacon Hills if he can’t indulge himself and wear his own designs?

 

 

He preens for a moment before going back out the front of the store to wait for the sheriff. He can see a tan uniform approaching as he steps outside, but he barely makes it two steps before he hears rather than sees movement behind him, and suddenly he’s hit with a wall of something cold and wet and _red_ , and he hears someone shouting _“Murderer!”_ as more paint is slopped over him.

Peter sees red – literally. He drags a hand over his eyes to clear his vision, and turns to face his attacker, face twisted in rage. He roars, and shoves the woman holding the bucket in the chest, sending her sprawling. He stalks over to where she’s landed, and crouches over her, faces inches apart. He growls, low and menacing, and gets a thrill when he hears her squeak in fright. Her heartrate’s through the roof as she scrambles backwards. Peter smiles at her, all fangs. “It’s not murder if they got a head start,” he lisps out, and snaps his jaws once, just for the look of it.  

The woman lets out a sob, and Peter’s tempted to push his luck, make her really cry. Just then though, he hears another voice - younger, male. “Woah! What the hell? Sir, you’ll need to step back, you’re scaring this woman.”

He stands and turns, expecting to find another protester (because idiocy normally loves company), but instead is confronted by the sight of a man in a police uniform. It’s definitely not the sheriff - he’s far too young, and, Peter notes idly, attractive, but the name badge still says Stilinski. Peter gives the kid a disbelieving look. “I’m scaring _her?_ She just assaulted me!”

“I’m fighting for the defenseless!” the woman gets out, still on the floor. “And he pushed me! He assaulted a helpless woman like the killer he is!”

The deputy gives her an unimpressed look. “We’ve talked about this, Luanne. Werewolves aren’t killers. They’re following their instincts, the same as your Missy is when she brings you a dead mouse.” Peter’s not sure whether he’s entertained by the deputy’s no nonsense attitude, or insulted at being compared to what he assumes is the woman’s cat.

He muses that at least the younger Stilinski gets it. Peter’s had this argument countless times before with misguided humans who don’t understand how it is for a werewolf – hunting isn’t just sport, it’s a deep seated, primal need. Fur isn’t murder - it’s a prize for besting your opponent.  And while he didn’t _personally_ kill the rabbits that are adorning his throat, he knows they come from a pack that prides themselves on a quick, painless kill, so his conscience is clear.  

The deputy continues, “Werewolves have permission to wear and sell traditionally obtained fur goods, whether you like it or not.” He gestures to the windows. “Was this you as well?”

The woman’s gotten to her feet, and Peter notes with satisfaction that she skitters as far away from him as possible. “I plead the Fifth,” she says, voice still shaky.

“Plead the Fifth all you want. You just threw paint on me and ruined a three hundred dollar sweater and wrap. You can be sure I’m pressing charges.” Peter folds his arms over his chest, only to give a shudder as the movement causes a rivulet of paint to slide down the back of his neck. It’s revolting, like a wet slug crawling over his flesh.

“Definitely pressing charges,” he repeats grimly.

 

* * *

 

The paperwork takes an age. The deputy, (‘ _Stiles, the sheriff’s my dad,_ ’) takes both their statements, and it’s painstakingly slow. Peter knows he’s just being thorough, but he wishes he’d just get on with it. Stiles has called for another officer to take Luanne to the station, so now it’s just the two of them, and Peter’s desperate to shower the paint off by the time Stiles finally closes his notebook with a snap, declaring, “We’re done.”

“About fucking time,” Peter grumbles. It’s going to be an absolute _nightmare_ to get the red paint out of his hair now that it’s dried.

“Werewolves, not swearwolves,” the deputy murmurs to himself.

“I beg your pardon?” Peter raises an eyebrow.

The deputy looks surprised, as if he’d forgotten Peter could hear him. “Oh! Sorry. It’s from a movie. _What We Do in the Shadows._ It’s about vampires in New Zealand. It has werewolves. And they say,  ‘ _It’s werewolves, not swearwolves,_ ’ in it. The guy who directed Ragnarok made it... ” he trails off as Peter stares at him, unblinking.

“As fascinating as that sounds, if you’ve finished, I’d like to leave. If I’m lucky, I can rescue this sweater from the paint stains, although the rabbit’s a write off, I fear.”

“Didn’t match, anyway,” Stiles says, before apparently realizing that he’s also said that out loud, and closing his mouth with an audible snap.

“ _Excuse me?”_ Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Stiles flushes, and Peter tries not to get distracted by how lovely the pink glow looks on his creamy complexion. “Sorry! It’s just…clothes are an interest of mine. And the scarf and the sweater, they didn’t really work.”

Peter draws himself up to his full height, and is dismayed to realize he’s a good inch shorter than the other man. Still, he levels what he knows is an impressive glare. “ _Do you know who you’re talking to?”_

Stiles peers at his notebook. “Peter Hale, it says here. Should that mean something?”

It’s only the fact that this is the sheriff’s son that stops Peter snapping at the boy. First, he compares him to a mere domestic pet dragging in a dead mouse, then he tells him his clothes don’t match, and now, he doesn’t even recognize his _name?_ Peter can feel a headache of biblical proportions coming on -although that could also be from the paint fumes.

“Yes. Peter Hale. Owner of WearWolf, and _designer_ of Wild Thing Animal Accessories,” Peter hisses, because really, his ego can only stand so much.

Stiles looks Peter up and down. “Huh.” He doesn’t sound nearly as impressed as Peter thinks he should.

“Yes. And I don’t appreciate some wet-behind-the-ears deputy questioning my taste. I’d like to see you come up with something better.”

Stiles gets a certain set to his jaw at that. “What, you think because I wear this tan bullshit for work, I can’t put a look together? Dude, you don’t even know me.” There’s a defiant spark in his eye, and Peter finds that he’s intrigued, despite himself.

But he's covered in paint, he's cranky, and his ego's more than a little bruised right now, so Peter gives in to the urge to be an asshole. “Oh please, be my guest. Pick me something to wear. I’m _aquiver_ with excitement to see what you choose. Maybe a graphic tee? Some skinny jeans? And of course, it has to be paired with converse, or it wouldn't be _edgy,_ would it?” Peter sneers. “Go ahead, Stiles. _Dazzle me_.”

Stiles regards Peter silently. Finally, after what seems like an age, he says, “I get off in two hours. I’ll meet you back here, and if I manage to come up with a better match for your scarf than that insipid sweater you’re wearing, you owe me an apology.”

Peter fights back the urge to argue that it’s not insipid, it’s _chic_. Instead he nods. “I’ll meet you here at twelve.”

Stiles turns on his heel and strides away without so much as a goodbye. Even wrapped in the unfortunate tan uniform, he has a delectable ass, and Peter checks it out shamelessly as he watches him go.

It’s a shame Stiles is such a rude little shit, Peter reflects. He’d be exactly Peter’s type, otherwise.

 

* * *

 

Peter arrives back at the store at five after twelve. There was a slight delay because as he feared, his hair has absorbed the pigment in the paint - even though he’s washed it four times, one side of his hair is red. And not just slightly red - completely and utterly red. (He suspects there was a drop or two of wolfsbane added to the paint – it’s a common trick among PAWS protesters.) He’s late because he had to call his hairdresser and schedule an emergency appointment, and despite all his wheedling and cajolery, she _still_ can’t fit him in ‘till tomorrow evening.

He fiddles self-consciously with the hat he’s wearing. He’s paired it with spats and a pin stripe suit, so it at least seems like the gangster look is deliberate, but it’s the fact he has to wear a hat at all that irritates him beyond belief. That, and the fact he’s had to keep the store closed in his absence because he still hasn’t found someone to replace Karen, who left last month.

So he’s hardly in the best of moods when he arrives to find Stilinski leaning against the closed doors, glancing at his watch pointedly. Peter stops short and has to look again, because what in god’s name is Stiles wearing? He’s in worn converse, faded khakis that do his long legs no favors at all, and a ratty t-shirt with the remains of a Nintendo logo on the front. “You’re telling me you’re going to dress me, when you look like that?” is out of Peter’s mouth before he can help it.

He can _see_ Stiles bristling at the comment. “Not that it’s any of your business, Al Capone, but it’s laundry day. Which is what I _should_ be doing right now, but instead I’m here with you, because apparently, I’m incapable of walking away when someone challenges my ego. Now hurry up and unlock, so I can dress you properly and then get on with my day. You’re late.”

Peter at least has the good grace to look ashamed. “Apologies. I had issues getting all the paint off,” he explains, as he unlocks the doors.

Stiles snorts. “Let me guess. Luanne ‘baned up the paint, it soaked into your perfect hair, and now you’re a ginger?”  Stiles reaches out and pulls the hat off his head without warning. Peter snatches it back with a low snarl and jams it back on, but not before Stiles has gotten a good look at his hair. “Oh wow, she really did a number. And it’s all down one side. You’re like, a half- assed Pennywise, dude.”

Peter scowls. “Yes, quite. If you’ve quite finished mocking a victim of crime, perhaps we can get on with it?”

Stiles stops snickering, and when Peter glances up he sees Stiles looks genuinely contrite. “Yeah, sorry. That was a dick move. To be honest, Luanne’s a pain in our ass just as much as yours. She joined PAWS a few months back, and now it’s all slogans and bumper stickers and reporting her werewolf neighbor because she claims he’s a savage, says he threatened to gut her cat and make a violin.”

“Did he?” Peter asks, interested despite himself. “Threaten her I mean, not disembowel the cat.”

“Oh, he totally did. But only because she keeps shitting in his kid’s sandbox every night. The cat, not Luanne,” he clarifies, before Peter can comment. “Luanne doesn’t like to keep the cat inside. Says it’s _going against her natural instincts._ ” He makes air quotes, and catches Peter’s disbelieving look. “I know, right? Missy can stay out all night and hunt, but Werewolves shouldn’t do the same, because apparently they should know better.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fucking people, man.”

Peter nods in agreement. “Isn’t it amazing how working closely with the public can lower your opinion of them so much?”

Stiles snorts in agreement, and Peter enters the store, gesturing for Stiles to follow.  Stiles stops just inside the door, craning his neck as he looks around. “Wow,” he breathes, and Peter can’t help his satisfied smirk. The store is impressive, even if he does say so himself. There are racks upon racks of crisp white shirts and tailored black pants, the bread and butter of his business, all of them manufactured to cater to werewolves. Harder wearing fabrics, sturdier construction than usual, but still with a professional look and feel to them.  There’s a wall that’s nothing but suits, and several racks of ties. There’s a waterfall of scarves.

And, of course, the animal products, the line Peter designed himself. Coats, scarves, fur muffs, hats, fur lined jackets, deerhide vests, bearskin slippers - Peter stocks it all, and it’s all from approved kill areas, all caught using ‘traditional methods’ which is a fancy way of saying captured and killed by a werewolf, then dragged back to the cataloguing station for cleaning and processing before being turned into gloves or the like.

Stiles blinks at the array of clothing surrounding him. “And out of all this, you picked _that_ sweater to go with _that_ scarf?”

It’s not what Peter was expecting to hear, and he finds himself suddenly defensive. “The scarf was a last-minute addition. I was in a hurry.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Still. Come on, dude.” Stiles walks around the store, poking among the racks. He grabs another one of the fur scarves and hands it to Peter, frowning as he does so. “I mean, you should never wear scarves anyway,” he says, and Peter notes that Stiles’s gaze is fixed on his throat.

“Excuse me?”

“That gorgeous neck of yours, man. Why the hell would you hide that? It’s a blessing to all who see it.” Stiles’s eyes widen and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Shit! Sorry, that was, that’s _incredibly_ inappropriate.”  And there it is, thinks Peter. That lovely blush.

“Oh, I’m not offended,” Peter says, smiling. He’s more entertained by Stiles’s lack of filter than anything. Maybe he’s not rude, he speculates. Maybe he just literally doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Still.” Stiles seems intent on looking anywhere except at Peter. “It was rude of me. I mean, you’re probably straight anyway,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Actually, that’s one stereotype I do fit, the dashing gay fashionista,” Peter tells him, dropping a wink. He watches Stiles swallow convulsively, and smirks.

“Right. Same. Gay I mean, not fashionista. Not professionally, anyway,” Stiles stammers out as Peter continues to gaze at him, unblinking. “Clothes are a sideline,” he finally explains. Peter looks him slowly up and down, one eyebrow raised in judgement. “I told you, laundry day. I normally look better than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I can’t wait to see you work your magic.” Peter raises a hand and gestures around the store, as if to say _go ahead_.

Stiles takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He looks Peter up and down, much the same way Peter did to him, and nods to himself. “Go take that monkey suit off, and I’ll bring you something,” he commands, and Peter gets a glimpse of Cop Stiles, all no nonsense and firm resolve. It sends a tiny shiver down his spine – he’s always been a fan of a man in uniform.

He obediently goes into the change room and strips out of his suit, scowling at the tender, still-pink skin where he'd had to scrub at the paint, and the abomination that’s his hair. He wonders briefly if he’ll have to resort to a buzzcut, and shudders at the thought.

There’s a knock at the door. “Pants size?”

“I’m a 36.”

He hears a snort. “Yeah, as long as you don’t wanna breathe or move or eat.”

Peter debates arguing the point but decides against it. He knows what size he takes, thank you very much, and he’ll look forwards to Stiles being proven wrong. He waits impatiently, before calling out, “Tick tock, officer. I’m a busy man.”

He hears grumbling, something about not rushing an artist, and then a single-breasted suit is slung over the top of the door, followed by a gorgeous scoop necked knit top. The suit has a subtle check pattern, and the soft mocha color matches the top perfectly. Lastly, Stiles slings the rabbit skin scarf over the door. “Try that.”

Peter takes the items and slips them on. He stares at himself in the mirror in silence. He looks phenomenal, dammit. It seems Stiles knows what he’s doing after all, and now Peter’s going to have to apologize.

Fuck.

He can hear Stiles’s heartrate speeding up outside the door as he awaits the verdict. Peter takes pity on him and steps out, hands extended. “Well?”

 Stiles looks him and down, before breaking into a grin. “It looks awesome! I knew it would!”

“It does,” Peter admits, “Although the pants are loose.” He slips a hand inside the waistband to prove his point. “I’m a thirty six. I’ve always been a thirty six. Werewolves stay lean.”

Stiles is staring at where Peter’s hand is tucked into his pants, at the strip of skin that Peter unwittingly exposed when he lifted the edge of the top. His breathing’s quick and his face is flushed. _Interesting_. Peter slowly draws his hand out, making sure to tug the top up a little further and show off his tanned abs, and he hears Stiles's heartbeat pick up. 

He wonders if he can talk the boy into bed, entertain himself a little, since it looks like he won’t be opening the store today and he has an afternoon to kill. Stiles is very enticing, and Peter’s never exactly been a model of restraint. He steps forwards, and leans in close. “I apologise for doubting your judgement,” he says, whisper soft in Stiles’s ear. “You obviously have _excellent_ taste.”

Stiles flails a little at the almost-contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Peter allows a hand to brush against Stiles’s cheek and steps away, grinning.

Maybe. Just maybe.

He looks at himself in the mirror once more, adjusting the scarf so that more of his throat is exposed. He eyes Stiles in the mirror, takes in his old clothes, and makes a decision. Maybe he can sweeten the pot a little. “Come with me,” he says, and leads Stiles out onto the shop floor. “Choose three things,” he declares, spreading his arms wide. “As a thank you.”

Stiles stares at him open mouthed for a moment. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. You deserve pretty things, Stiles. To go with your pretty face. Consider it a bonus for dealing with that terrible woman for me.”

Stiles shakes his head and sighs. “You, mean doing my _job?_   I’m gonna pass. I’d hate it to look like you bribed me and for Luanne to get off on those charges. Her lawyer’s that Whittemore asswipe, he'd be all over something like that.”

Oh. Peter hadn’t thought of that.  Stiles must catch the dismayed expression on Peter’s face, because he lets out a deep breath and tilts his head back, thinking. “I appreciate the offer, honestly. Maybe…lunch?” he says. “Lunch isn’t a bribe. And I’m kinda hungry.”

“Lunch sounds like an excellent idea.” Peter pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting us a booking at _Dolce Vita,_ obviously. Unless you were planning on eating at the food court?” Peter says with a sardonic twist of his lips.

Stiles shuffles his feet. “Um, kinda? I can’t go to _Dolce Vita_ looking like this. And you can’t really go looking like, well, that.” Stiles points to Peter’s hair, which he’d almost forgotten about.  

Damn.

Well, Peter’s resourceful. There’s no reason he can’t seduce somebody over a plate of nachos.

 

* * *

 

Except it turns out, he can’t.  At first Peter thinks it’s because he’s being too subtle, but as the meal progresses (and where, exactly is Stiles putting all that food?), and Peter ups his game, it becomes apparent that Stiles is ignoring his advances. Peter would be annoyed, except that he’s enjoying Stiles’s company immensely.

As he thought earlier, Stiles isn’t actually rude, he just speaks before he thinks. As a result, his conversation is a mix of enlightening and hilarious. Peter learns that Stiles has always had a thing for clothing, but it’s not exactly an easy career path for a teenage boy to follow in a town this size. Stiles settled for being a cop, and he really doesn’t mind it. “It’s a good job. I mean, it’s kinda entertaining most of the time. The protesters are the worst of it right now.”

Peter nods in understanding. The protests are a relatively new thing – Werewolves and their Filthy Habits are the New Evil, apparently. Despite the propaganda PAWS puts out (People Against Werewolf Savagery, a name that makes Peter’s eyes roll all the way back into his head), it’s a cold hard fact of life that Weres _need_ to hunt down prey, in order to keep themselves in check. Their opponents refuse to believe it however, and have started targeting businesses that carry products that come from the hunting grounds. (If they knew about the slabs of fresh caught venison in Peter's freezer they’d probably have a fit.)

“So, fashion’s a hobby?”

Stiles nods, mouth full of beans and rice. It should look disgusting, but all Peter can focus on is the way the grease on Stiles’s lips makes them shimmer like he’s wearing lipgloss. Peter really wants to lick it off, but he settles for staring as he listens. “Sort of. It’s on the downlow, you know? Like I say, small town.”

Peter gets it. He grew up somewhere similar, and he knows he could easily have quashed his interests and joined the basketball team, except that Peter has never been one for walking away from a challenge. His mother always accused him of being pigheaded, and he supposes she was right. Case in point, here he is, having lunch with a young man who apparently has no interest in engaging with his flirting, despite Peter’s best efforts.

He could, _should_ , pay for lunch and walk away, but where’s the satisfaction in that?  

So he continues to slip sly compliments into their conversation, drops the fact that he’s single and ready to mingle, that he adores pale skin, and thinks beauty marks are underappreciated.  Stiles cheerfully ignores it all. It’s most frustrating. By the time Peter buys them slices of pie, he’s starting to seriously doubt himself, which never happens.  In desperation, he musters all his charm and purrs, “I won’t lie, Stiles. I was hoping I could persuade you to come back to my place this afternoon. I’m told I’m a considerate lover – we could consider it a reward for your hard work today, since you won’t take my clothes.”

When Stiles shakes his head at the suggestion with a cheerful, “Nope. I told you man, laundry,” Peter’s out of ideas.

He decides to try something new – honesty.

Peter clasps his hands in front of himself, and looks Stiles in the eye. “I like you, Stiles. I’m attracted to you. And my werewolf senses tell me you’re attracted to me too. Am I reading this wrong?”

Stiles observes Peter closely, as if he’s trying to decide which Peter is real, the flirty version, or this quiet, sincere man. Eventually he leans forward. “I’m interested,” he admits. Peter grins, but then Stiles holds up his hand. “I’m interested, _but_ -” Peter deflates. There’s always a but, it seems. “I don’t do casual.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Oh. I understand. My apologies,” Peter murmurs, as his libido mourns.

“Yeah. Not my thing, like, at all,” Stiles continues. “Sorry.”

Peter gathers himself. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says briskly. “Eat your pie.”

Stiles eyes him suspiciously. “Really?”

Peter raises a brow. “Really. You can’t blame a man for trying, but I _can_ take no for an answer.”

Stiles grins, bright and relieved, and Peter dies a little inside, because it just makes him want Stiles even more. But he brushes all mention of the offer aside as if it wasn’t important, (it wasn’t important, it _wasn’t),_ pays the bill, apologizes once more for doubting Stiles’s eye, and walks back to the store. Stiles heads off to do the infamous laundry, and Peter does his best not to sulk that he’s been thrown over for a pair of ripe boxers and some four-day old socks.

At least he managed to talk Stiles into giving him his number, “Just in case I need urgent police assistance.”

Stiles’s expression is skeptical, but he takes Peter’s phone and adds his number in anyway. “In case you need help dressing yourself in the morning, you mean,” he says with a smirk.

Peter watches him go, and lets out a tiny sigh, lamenting his missed chance. Then he spends the afternoon threatening the window cleaners over the phone, telling them if they chip his gold leaf with their scrapers again, he’ll make them regret it. He leaves the threat deliberately vague, just so they’ll think the worst. It makes him feel marginally better about his clusterfuck of a day.

It’s not as much fun as chasing down a pretty boy and bedding him, but it’s something.

 

* * *

 

Four days later, Peter comes back to find red paint across his windows again. According to the slogan he’s a _Mudder Wolf._

He goes inside before dialing the police station, just in case there’s a crazy woman lurking again. He doesn’t want to tempt fate - it had cost a fortune and taken several hours to have his hair restored to its original chestnut, and he could _feel_ the shampoo girl silently laughing at him the whole time. The phone's picked up. “Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, Stilinski,” says a bored voice.

“Stiles? I’m afraid I need your assistance.”

“What, socks don’t match?” Stiles snickers.

Peter would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed. “Not quite. Your cat loving vandal’s been up to her tricks again.”

Stiles groans. “Aw, man. Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay. Hang on.” Peter can hear the sound of the phone being pressed against Stiles shoulder, and clacking of a keyboard, as well as snatches of conversation _“ Luanne – again”_

_“-can go Stiles, you’re the one who has the hots for –”_

_“Shut up! I do not! I just said, he has a nice –”_

Peter clears his throat pointedly at that. “I have a nice what, exactly, Stiles?”

He can almost hear the blush through the phone. “Shit! Nothing, ignore them. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Peter hears someone wolf whistling in the background and Stiles hissing at them to _shut up!_ just before the call disconnects.

Stiles turns up fifteen minutes later, and snorts when he sees the misspelling. “That’s almost as offensive as the destruction of property,” he comments, and Peter can’t help but agree.

It’s the same old song and dance – photos are taken, statements are made - no Peter didn’t see anyone, no he didn’t hear anything, no he wasn’t attacked this time. Stiles tells him they’ll question the known members of PAWS, but there’s not a lot else they can do. Just before he leaves, Stiles steps a little closer and extends a hand. “Can I -?” he asks, and Peter nods, not sure what he’s agreeing to.

Stiles tilts Peter’s head to the side, and grins. “You look better this color,” he says with a nod. The Ronald McDonald look really wasn’t you.”

Peter’s just about to object to the comparison when Stiles drops his hand to Peter’s shirt. One, two, he flicks Peter’s top two buttons undone, and loosens the blue silk tie Peter’s wearing. His clever fingers are warm against Peter's skin, and he has to suppress a whine at the contact. Stiles steps back, and licks his lips. “Better. Told you man, you gotta show off that throat.” While Peter’s still coping with Stiles touching him, Stiles grabs Peter’s wrist and expertly folds his cuffs so they’re halfway up his forearm, then does the same on the other side. More touching, and it's torture, a teasing reminder of what Peter can't have. “Yeah,” Stiles says, nodding to himself. “Much better.”

And when Peter looks in the mirror, damned if Stiles isn’t right.

“Come work for me.” The words fall out of his mouth unbidden.

Stiles’s mouth drops open and he stares for a second, all composure gone. Then he seems to get a hold of himself. “Yeah, no. I have a job, thanks.”

Peter shrugs. “I know. It was just a passing thought.”

“Yeah well, tell it to keep on passing, thanks. This is what I do for fun.”

Another thought strikes Peter. “If you’re such a fan of fashion, how come I haven’t ever seen you in here before?”

“Honestly? I heard a rumor the owner was a douche. Plus, if I shop here, I can’t pay rent, and I don’t want to be Beacon Hill’s best dressed man if it means living with my dad again.” He shrugs - _what can you do?_ \- and Peter nods. He gets it – he had his share of ramen weeks when he was in college, supplemented with fresh meat he caught on the hoof. It wasn’t a fun time.

“Come down anyway, browse and say hello, now you know the owner’s not a douche,” he offers.

Stiles grins. “Who said he isn’t?” He steps forwards and lays a palm on Peter’s collar to flatten it down, his hand brushing Peter's collarbone in another momentary point of heat and contact that has Peter craving more, and then he’s gone, unaware of the effect his touches have had, waving his notebook in farewell as he strides down the mall.

Peter takes a moment to admire the view before going back inside, his fingers unconsciously brushing over where Stiles touched him.

 

* * *

 

Stiles does come down to browse. It’s a few days later, and Peter’s making the most of a lull to put out some new stock when Stiles ambles in the door, and Peter almost doesn’t recognize him. He’s not in uniform, and he’s not in a ratty tee, either. He’s wearing dark denims, a white henley, with a leather jacket over the top. Peter has to take a moment at the sight. “You look very enticing today, Stiles. Are you sure I can’t lure you back to mine for some fun?” he asks, because fortune favors the bold.

Stiles grins. “Still no. Thanks for asking though, it’s great for my ego.” He looks Peter up and down appraisingly. “Looking like that though? I’m almost tempted. That vest’s all kinds of hot, just so you know.”

Peter places a hand over his heart and gasps. “Stiles! You mean…you finally approve of my attire? Be still, my beating heart!”  

Stiles laughs, pulling something out of his pocket and throwing it at Peter. “Here. Made me think of you.” Peter catches the item instinctively, opening his palm to examine it. His lips thin in disapproval when he sees what it is. Stiles comes over and stands next to him, snickering. “It’s a good likeness, don’t you think?”

Peter shoots Stiles an unimpressed look, which just makes the little shit laugh even harder. Peter dangles the tiny redheaded troll keyring from his fingertips disdainfully. “You’re not funny, Stiles.”

“Excuse you, I’m hilarious. You just don’t appreciate my genius.”

Peter shoves the doll into his jacket pocket without comment, and goes back to unpacking stock. Stiles hangs around for an hour or so, trawling through the shelves, pulling out items and putting them together, trying stuff on, then screwing up his face at the price tags, and generally keeping Peter entertained with his witty banter. It’s nice, and Peter almost forgives him the doll.

Peter genuinely intends to throw the awful thing in the bin as soon as Stiles leaves, but instead he finds himself running his fingers over the oddly shaped lump during the day, and when he goes home, he places the doll on his bedside table for no good reason that he could tell you.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No critique on the artwork, please! These are completed pieces drawn especially by HDHale for the event. :) Please do not repost.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Two weeks later, Peter’s store is attacked yet again.

Stiles turns up, takes details and pictures, and tells Peter they’re doing all they can.   As he leaves, he comments, “Hey. At least the color’s eye-catching.”

 After Stiles leaves, Peter looks at his defaced window again, and as he serves customers, he thinks about what Stiles said. The red really does stand out. A tiny smile creeps onto his face, and he decides, _fuck it._ The best defence is a good offence - it’s time for a new look.

At lunchtime he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Stiles.

**Feel like getting creative tonight?**

_Didn’t I already turn you down twice?_

Peter sighs. At least Stiles is consistent.

**Yes, you did. But that’s not what I meant. I’m redoing the window display and I thought you might like to help.**

Peter’s phone rings. “Really? You’d let me play in your sandbox? Why?”

“I’m fine Stiles, thank you for asking.”

Stiles makes a dismissive sound. _That boy really does have terrible manners_ , thinks Peter. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me why it sounds like you’re up to no good.”

Peter fills Stiles in on his plan, and Stiles laughs loudly. “Oh man, I definitely wanna be in on this. What time?”

Peter hums, thinking. “I close at six, so meet me then and we’ll get something to eat before we get to work.”

“Sounds good.”

“Excellent. And afterwards, maybe you'll finally let me seduce you.” Peter hangs up before Stiles can reply.

The little shit crushes Peter's hopes in a single text, however.

_Still a no.  
_

Peter sighs. It was worth a shot. His phone pings again.

_You can still buy me dinner though, even if I'm not putting out. Call it payment for my assistance._

_Smartass,_ Peter thinks, smiling as he slips the phone into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, they spend an entire evening revamping the stock that Peter has on show, talking as they work. Peter learns that Stiles is as quick witted as he is attractive, and finds himself breaking into raucous laughter more than once, the sound echoing through the empty store. Stiles just smirks. “Told you I’m hilarious.” When they’re done, Stiles stands back, hands on hips. “That looks badass.”

Peter nods his agreement. His front window now looks like something out of Fur Trapper’s Weekly. He’s filled every available space with fur and animal skin products from his range. He’s made sure that each and every item displays the required tag proclaiming it to be from a cruelty-free capture facility.

As for the windows?

Peter’s painted around the edges in bright red, jagged patterning that may or may not look like bloody claw marks. Using a stencil and spray paint, he’s added the slogan **‘Come where the Wild Things are.’** It’s underlined with what looks like a spray of arterial blood. It’s certainly eye-catching.

Let’s see what Luanne and her cronies make of that.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s stupidly popular.

People take pictures of the window on their phone and post them to social media, one of those _“This guy turned the tables on his opponents”_ type of stories that everyone seems to love so much, and suddenly it’s all over the internet. Peter finds that business picks up significantly. It does mean that finding a new assistant moves up his list of priorities. He texts Stiles, something that’s becoming a habit.

**Are you sure you won’t come work for me?**

_Yep. Why are you asking?_

**The windows were a success and now I’m run off my feet**

_Well stop wasting time on your phone then_

 

Peter pokes his tongue out at the message, but he does actually get back to work. Later that afternoon though, a young man comes into the store  tall, cherub faced, with blonde curls and a ridiculous scarf. Peter likes him immediately. He’s clutching at a sheaf of papers and looking distinctly nervous. He clears his throat before saying, “Um, a friend of mine, Stiles, he said you might have a job going?”

Peter’s eyebrows raise, and he gives the young man a second look. No, not _man_ , his senses correct. _Wolf._  “Born or bitten?” he asks quietly.

The young man’s eyes widen just fractionally before he replies, “Bitten. I was in a four-car pileup. I was happy to take the bite – the other option was a wheelchair…” he trials off, licking his lips nervously. “Isaac.” He finally offers. “Isaac Lahey.” He extends a hand, and Peter shakes it.

“And Stiles sent you?”

“Yeah, he said you were looking, that you’d gotten busy.” Isaac casts a glance at the store front, and Peter sees his lips twist in a tiny smile. He definitely likes this boy.

“Come back after closing, we’ll talk,” Peter tells him. “I’ll read your resume in the meantime.” Isaac smiles widely, and he really does look angelic, his whole face transforming.

When he leaves, Peter takes time between customers to call Stiles. It takes him a long time to answer his phone, and all Peter gets is a “Whut.” Stiles sounds sick, and Peter frowns at the thought.

He waits for more, but there’s silence. “Stiles? Are you all right?”

After a second, he hears what sounds like a yawn, and Stiles sighs out, “Yeah. Just off nights, not quite functioning properly.”

“Oh god, I didn’t wake you?” Peter’s hit by that stab of guilt felt by anyone who’s ever disturbed a shift worker. He can hear a rustling that might be Stiles sitting up in bed, possibly stretching -  he can imagine the long limbs and lean body, naked and nestled in rumpled sheets.  It’s an image he tucks away for later.

“Nah. Finished last night, so I’m just kinda dozing now. I can sleep later. What’s up?”

“Isaac. Tell me about him.”

Peter can hear Stiles moving around as he talks, hears the clink of spoon against cup. “Yeah. I went to high school with him, we were on the Lacrosse team together. I heard he’s looking to move from where he’s working, and I thought he might be a good fit for you.” he pauses. “That’s if - you don’t mind, do you?”

Peter’s been reading Isaac’s resume while Stiles talked, and he’s pleased to find that Isaac has a solid work history, and excellent references. “Why does he want to leave where he is?” Peter always finds the answer to that question telling.

“You’d have to ask him, but from what he said, the place has new owners, and they’re not so big on the fangs and the fur. Look, Isaac’s had it a little rough, okay? He could do with a break.  And he’s straight, so don’t bother hitting on him.”

Peter makes a shocked sound. “As if I would do such a thing!”

Stiles snickers. “Pure as the driven snow, that’s you.”

“No, that’s _you_ ,” Peter counters.

Stiles goes quiet for a moment. “Not quite.” His tone is clipped, and Peter can tell he’s touched on a sore point. Despite his desire to know more, he’s smart enough to leave it alone.

“I’m interviewing him tonight, thanks for sending him,” he says instead, and he might imagine it, but he thinks he can hear the tiniest of exhales over the phone.

“Yeah, no problem. Plus, Isaac’s a sarcastic asshole, so I know you’ll get along.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Peter mutters, half to himself.

Stiles snorts in response. “Fair. I’m gonna go and grab a shower, see if I can wake up some more.”  And Stiles in the shower? That really _is_ a mental picture Peter didn’t need.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t jerk off to the image later that night.

 

* * *

 

Peter hires the kid. He remembers Isaac’s story from the papers, when he thinks about it. A year or so ago, his drunken father had ploughed through an intersection and was killed instantly. By some miracle, the only other injury was Isaac, who immediately petitioned for the bite once he realized the extent of his injuries. Peter gets the impression from talking to Isaac that losing his father wasn’t the tragedy it might have been, and he thinks about what Stiles had said – _Isaac’s had it a little rough._   He wonders what, exactly, Stiles knows that he can’t say because of his job.

Isaac’s delighted, beaming and offering Peter his assurance that he won’t regret it, and Peter can hear that he’s telling the truth. Isaac tells him that since they’re put him onto casual hours where he currently is, he can start as soon as his current roster finishes in four days. Peter buys him dinner to celebrate, and he finds that once Isaac relaxes around him, turns off his best behavior, he really is as sarcastic as Stiles has said, his innocent face belying his vicious tongue. Together they mercilessly mock the PAWS protesters, and Peter has a wonderful time. He can already tell they’re going to work well together.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s window keeps bringing in business, and he happily agrees when the local paper wants to do a story on the whole debacle, and how he’s turned it around. It means he gets to promote his line of accessories as well, and he'd be a fool to turn down that sort of free publicity.

Stiles brings in a copy of the article, carefully folded, and hands it over with a smirk. Peter opens it to find that Stiles has painstakingly colored in the photo with a sharpie, making half of Peter’s hair bright red. “That’s how I remember it,” Stiles says, grinning openly. Peter just shakes his head, and slips the folded paper into his pocket. He’ll throw it out later. Probably. (He doesn’t. It ends up on his night stand under the troll. Shut up.)

Of course, not everyone loves the store’s new look. Peter gets some backlash on his website, and several nasty messages suggesting he be held down and skinned, see how he likes it. He brushes it off – he’d like to see anyone try. When he mentions it to Stiles though, Stiles frowns. “Peter, you know you can’t take threats like that lightly, right? This group have done some serious damage. They sprayed a Were with full strength wolfsbane last month, nearly blinded him.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes, officer.” Stiles kicks him under the table. They’re having lunch together, because somehow they’re friends now. Peter’s not sure how it happened, but slowly, over the last month, the boundaries have become blurred.

It started after Peter took Stiles out for what he termed a ‘proper meal’ to thank hm for recommending Isaac, (who’s turned out to be a godsend), and it snowballed from there. Now it’s nothing for them to spend time together, watch an occasional movie, catch dinner together. Peter would be lying if he said he didn’t want more, but a no’s always been a no in his book, and he has to content himself with shameless ogling, since Stiles hasn’t given any indication that he’s changed his mind.

(Peter asks every now and then, just to check. Stiles continues to roll his eyes and reply, “Don’t do one-night stands.”)

Stiles kicks him again, and Peter realizes he was wool-gathering. “Stop daydreaming, and listen to what I’m telling you. The head of that group is a nasty piece of work. Gerard Argent’s not about saving the fuzzy bunnies, he’s about harming werewolves and dressing it up as animal rights. If you hear anything from him, _anything,_ you let the station know, all right?”  Peter can tell that he’s deadly serious, and he does Stiles the courtesy of assuming he knows his job.

“I will,” he assures him. “Anything from Argent, and I’ll call you.”

“Good. ‘Cause I kinda like you, and it’d be a pain in my ass if you got hurt.” His tone is all no-nonsense cop, but there’s fondness there, too.

At least, Peter likes to imagine there is.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s phone pings, and when he sees who the message is from he smiles to himself.

_Free on Friday night?_

**What did you have in mind?**

_Wondering about Endgame?_

Peter’s fingers dance over the keys as he composes his reply.

**Endgame is you naked and begging beneath me, possibly on a bearskin rug, sweetheart. That hasn’t changed.**

The little dots appear and disappear half a dozen times before he gets a reply

_Dick_

**I’m hoping that will be involved, yes.**

Peter picks the phone up on the first ring. “Is this finally a yes?”

“You _wish_ it was a yes. No, Endgame the movie, Peter. It’s out on Friday and I’m not ready! Come with me, be my emotional support wolf?”

Peter chuckles. “Of course.”

They go to the movie.

Stiles cries like a baby at the characters deaths, wraps himself around Peter, and gets buttery popcorn fingers and tears all over the shoulder of Peter’s suede jacket.

Peter holds him close and doesn’t even mind.

 

* * *

 

The threats haven’t stopped. There was one day where Peter and Isaac couldn’t get into the store because someone had sprinkled mountain ash across the entire shopfront.

PAWS aren’t even denying it’s them. At every opportunity, Gerard Argent claims that he’s there to defend the rights of helpless creatures everywhere, and he’ll do what it takes.  Stiles watches the news and snorts. “So, he’s willing to harm werewolves to defend animals? Does he even _listen_ to himself?” He leans over and snags the last slice of pizza.

“No, because he’s a fool.” Peter bats at the back of Stiles’s hand as it passes him by in an effort to get his dinner back, but Stiles ignores him.

“A dangerous fool,” Stiles reminds him. “You’re on his radar. He named you specifically last week, remember. Said you were personally offensive.”

“Excuse me, I’m a delight. Which is why I’ve been invited to be a presenter at the LA Fashion Awards in two weeks.” He grins smugly and hands Stiles the letter of invitation.

Stiles’s eye widen as he takes in the gold printed letterhead. “Wow. This is like, a big deal!”

“It’s not that big of a deal. I’m only presenting a few awards,” Peter says, but he’d be lying if he said wasn’t preening at least a little.

Stiles’s smile is soft and genuine when he says, “Congratulations.” He looks utterly adorable, and it’s one of those moments where Peter has to hold back the urge to lean in for a kiss.  But then Stiles adds, “Did you want me to help you pick an outfit? Because formal wear can be tricky,” and it kills the mood completely, if it was ever there to start with.

* * *

 

“Why don’t you do casual, Stiles?”

The words are out of Peter’s mouth before he thinks about it, and Stiles frowns at him. “What?”

“You keep turning down my offers, and you said when we first met, you don’t do casual. Why not? You’re an attractive man, and it’s the twenty-first century. “

“Why do you want to know? Why can’t you just accept that it’s my choice?”

He’s right – it’s none of Peter’s business. Peter feels inexplicably bad for prying. He looks down at his coffee cup, fiddling with the spoon. “You’re right. My apologies. Idle curiosity.”

Stiles leans over and steals a forkful of Peter’s pie. He chews silently while Peter tries to figure out if he’s upset. He doesn’t smell distressed, and his heartrate’s steady, so Peter concludes he hasn’t overstepped too badly. Finally, Stiles swallows, and looks at Peter as if he’s considering something. Peter shoves his plate over towards Stiles as a peace offering. “None of my business, right?”

Stiles lets out a tiny sigh, and glances round the coffee shop. It’s almost empty, but he still keeps his voice low. “I tried, okay? When I was at the Academy, in the big city all alone, I got picked up a few times.” He hesitates. “And by a few, I mean many, many times. And the sex wasn’t bad, but afterwards? It was just awkward, and I felt terrible. Like it didn’t matter. Like _I_ didn’t matter. And that’s not me.” He sighs again. “So I gave up on one night stands, and decided I’d hold out for the whole enchilada – dating, flowers, morning after snuggles, the works.” He looks slightly embarrassed, poking holes in the pie and keeping his eyes downcast.

“You’re a romantic,” Peter sums up. And really, he should have guessed. Stiles does tend to throw himself into things wholeheartedly.

“I guess.” Stiles glances up, and Peter gives him a soft smile. “People probably think it’s weird, but -”

“-it’s not their call,” Peter finishes for him. Stiles nods, and he looks relieved that Peter gets it. It’s awkward between them for all of five seconds, and then Peter says, “Shame, though. I bet you’re phenomenal in bed.” Stiles doesn’t deny it, but instead flicks a blueberry at him, cackling when it hits Peter square in the face.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter goes home and thinks about what Stiles said. He can’t fault Stiles for his choices, but it is a shame. He’d held out at least a flicker of hope that he could coax Stiles into bed at some stage. And it’s not like it would change anything between them, at least he’d hope not. They’re friends, and there’s no reason that couldn’t carry on. They could keep spending time together, going to dinner, having fun, but at the end of it, instead of going home, Peter would get to lean in and kiss those gorgeous lips, peel Stiles out of his clothes, and worship him. He’d probably stay the night; it would only make sense.

If Peter woke first, he’d make them breakfast. It would be nice. Peter ruminates on how much he’d enjoy it for a full ten minutes before it hits him, and he wants to slap himself for taking so long to see it.

Apparently, Stiles isn’t the only one who’s a romantic.

But Stiles has consistently turned Peter down from day one, and there’s not much chance he’s going to change his mind now. Peter silently congratulates himself for successfully falling for the one person who’s not interested in him.

Idiot.

He’s still sulking about it when he goes to work the next day. Isaac picks up on his mood, and hangs back, skittish. It takes until mid-morning for him to say something. “Peter? Did I do something to upset you?” He smells almost…afraid, and it occurs to Peter that Isaac probably doesn’t do well with conflict.

“No,” Peter sighs. “It’s not you at all. I’m feeling sorry for myself, if you must know.” Isaac relaxes immediately now he knows it’s not about him, tilts his head to the side, and makes an encouraging noise. Peter must really be feeling pathetic, because he doesn’t think twice about bemoaning his bad fortune. “I’m pining because it turns out I’ve fallen for someone who doesn’t like me back. How pitiful is that?”

Isaac’s brows raise slightly. “You have a crush?”

Peter busies himself fiddling with the bow ties. “Yes, Isaac, I have a crush. But it’s one sided.”

Isaac’s brows draw together. “Are you – are you talking about Stiles? ‘Cause that’s not one sided. Like, _at all_.”

Peter pokes morosely at the tie rack. “I assure you it is. He turned me down the day we met.”

The look Isaac gives him is pitying. “Not to pry, but what did he turn down, exactly?  Because I _know_ he likes you. I remember the signs from when he was crushing on Danny in high school.”

Peter shrugs. “I offered to take him home, and he said he doesn’t do casual. And every time I’ve offered since, he’s laughed at me, like even the thought of it’s a joke.”

Isaac crosses his arms over his chest and gives Peter a look that flat out says he thinks Peter’s a fool. “So, you’ve just kept offering to take him to bed? Even though he said he doesn’t do that?”

“…yes?”

“And you haven’t tried, say, asking him on _a real_ _date?"_ Peter thought he was the king of the judgemental eyebrow, but he has to say, Isaac’s currently running a close second. Peter just stares, and Isaac rolls his eyes. “He keeps turning up to see you, he took you to Endgame, a Marvel movie, which is a _big deal_ for Stiles, he looks at you like you’re the last steak on the grill when he thinks nobody’s looking. _He likes you_ , Peter.”

Peter considers it, and Isaac takes his silence as permission to carry on. _“_ You should have heard him when he rang me to tell me you needed staff.  _You should work for Peter, you’ll like Peter, Peter’s so clever, Peter dresses so nice, Peter would be a great boss, Peter’s so pretty…”_ Isaac mimics in a falsetto. “He’s gone for you, man. Just ask him out properly, instead of trying to get him into bed. That's what he's waiting for.”

 Peter mentally berates himself, because Isaac's right. He never even thought to ask if Stiles was interested in more than a quick fuck. He should do something about that. Possibly right now.

“Do you really think –” He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but Isaac seems so sure.

“I really think. He’s at the station, if you want to go see him. I’ll cover for you here.”

Peter hesitates, and Isaac flaps a hand at him. “Go. Ask. You can thank me later.”  Peter takes a moment to wonder when his employee got so damned mouthy, before he bolts out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s probably over-kill to turn up with a giant bouquet of roses, but Peter doesn’t care. When he walks in the door of the station, Stiles is working the front counter. He sees Peter and steps out from behind it, leaning with his arms folded across his chest, looking stupidly attractive with his tight shirtsleeves highlighting his surprisingly muscular  biceps. Peter has to take a moment at the sight. Stiles is grinning and looking at Peter expectantly, but Peter finds himself frozen to the spot, suddenly nervous. What if this is a terrible idea?

Stiles waves a hand at the flowers. “They for me?” Peter nods, unable to find words.  Stiles makes grabby hands and Peter hands the roses over. “So, any reason you’re bringing me flowers?” he prompts.

His hopeful expression gives Peter the courage to blurt out, “Go out with me? Flowers, dating, snuggles, the whole enchilada?”

Stiles’s face lights up, and he leans in to kiss Peter on the cheek. “Yes.”  

Peter can feel the sappy smile on his face, knows he probably looks ridiculous, but Stiles is smiling just as brightly. The other officers in the bullpen whistle and cheer, but Stiles ignores them as he swoops in for another quick kiss, this one on the lips. His eyes sparkle with mischief as he says, “Took you long enough. I was beginning to think I’d have to ask you.”

“Brat,” Peter murmurs, chasing another kiss. Stiles kisses him back, properly this time. Peter melts into it and wishes he could stay right there, arms wrapped around that awful tan uniform, feeling the firm planes of Stiles’s muscles under his hands, but then the sheriff comes out to see what all the whooping and catcalling’s about, and tells Stiles that if he hasn't put the werewolf down and gotten back to work in _the next ten seconds_ , he’s on traffic duty for a month.

 

* * *

 

When Peter goes back to the store, Isaac’s insufferably smug. Peter lets him get away with it just this once, still giddy because _Stiles has agreed to date him._ He’s in such a good mood, in fact, that he walks over to the scarf display and grabs an assortment, handing them to Isaac. “For you. Consider this a bonus.” That earns him one of those cherubic smiles. Peter eyes the pile, and then adds one of his new range of fur scarves and a hundred-dollar pair of leather gloves he knows Isaac’s been eyeing off. “On one condition,” he says, when he sees Isaac’s eyes grow wide. “The words _‘I told you so’_ never, ever, pass your lips.”

“Deal,” Isaac agrees promptly, and whisks the pile away before Peter can change his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s only a couple of hours later that Peter’s phone rings. He frowns when he sees the number for the police station on his screen. For a split second, he wonders if it’s the Sheriff warning him off dating his son.

It _is_ the Sheriff, but it has nothing to do with Stiles. “Sorry Peter, but I need you to come down to the station. There’s a problem with PAWS.”

It turns out that Luanne, of all people, has come forward with important information. After she got slapped with a $500 fine and an order to stay away from his store, Peter’s more than a little surprised. But it turns out that Luanne isn’t quite the mindless follower he had her pegged for. Due to some sort of administrative screwup at the protest organization, she's been sent an email that she should never have received - instead of the usual PAWS supporter’s email, this is a very different version, obviously meant for far higher-ranking members than the likes of Luanne.

It talks about giving Werewolves a taste of their own medicine, using whatever means necessary. It doesn’t name names, but it does refer to a ‘PH’ as a prime target, and suggests the upcoming awards show as the perfect showcase, saying rather ominously that _‘PH needs to be made an example of, made to suffer like the animals he slaughters.”_

Luanne had read the contents, and in a moment of clarity realized that this was serious stuff, not at all what she’d signed up for, and taken it straight to the Sheriff.

John shows the printout to Peter, who reads the contents and frowns. “So what do we do? Can we arrest them?”

John shakes his head. “Nope. Too vague, and no way to trace who actually sent it. I already tried. I’d suggest you skip the show.”

“But – I’m presenting!”

John shakes his head. “Not anymore you’re not.” Peter goes to protest, but John cuts him off. “I know you can take care of yourself, trust me. I’m more concerned that they’ll provoke you to violence, you’ll snap some poor bastard’s neck, and you’ll be the one who gets locked up. And then I'll have to listen to my kid whine about dating a felon.”

Peter sees an opportunity and grabs it. He’d wanted to invite Stiles to LA, but knew he was meant to be working that weekend, so hadn’t asked. Now though, he can kill two birds with one stone.  “I was hoping to take Stiles with me, actually. Our first date, if his shifts allowed it. What if he doubles as my bodyguard?”

John looks thoughtful. “That could work.” He observes Peter for a minute before saying, “Flying him to LA – that’s one hell of a first date. You really wanna impress him, huh?”

Peter nods. “Nothing but the best.”

He waits for the inevitable shovel talk, but instead John gives him a genuine smile. “Good. My kid deserves the best. I’ll shuffle the rosters, make sure he’s available.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You want me to come to LA as your bodyguard - slash - date for the awards night?”

“As my date, who happens to be armed. You’ll make delicious arm candy, once I get you into a tux.”

“I don’t own a tux.”

“If only you knew someone who had access to a store full of menswear,” Peter deadpans.

Stiles grins. “Free suit? Weekend in LA? Red carpet? I’d love to come.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

When Stiles steps out of the changeroom he smirks and does a slow spin. “You like?”

Peter stares open mouthed, before swallowing thickly.  “I don’t think you can wear that to the awards.”

Stiles’s face screws up in confusion. “Really? I thought it looked pretty good?”

“That’s the problem, sweetheart. How am I meant to keep my hands to myself with you looking like that?” Peter steps forwards into Stiles’s personal space, and runs a hand lingeringly over the shoulders of the tuxedo. It’s a deep blue, because of course Stiles would eschew common black. “It’s perfect on you.”

Stiles relaxes at that, and he waggles his eyebrows. “Play your cards right, and I’ll let you peel me out of it after.”

Peter steps a little closer, and since the store’s closed and they’re all alone, he gives in to his impulses and pulls Stiles into a hungry kiss, which Stiles returns with enthusiasm. When they finally part, Peter’s almost dizzy with want. “Don’t promise what you’re not prepared to deliver, sweetheart.”

Stiles drapes his arms over Peter’s shoulders. “Who says I won’t deliver? I mean, you in a tux, a red carpet, a weekend away in a nice hotel, and I’m hoping only one bed? Sounds like the perfect setup to me.”

Peter nuzzles the side of Stiles’s throat. “I booked separate rooms,” he admits. ”I didn’t want to assume.”

“Call the hotel and change the booking,” Stiles murmurs as he pulls their bodies flush. “You’re definitely getting lucky.” Peter holds Stiles close and kisses him again, letting all his want bleed into the kiss. Stiles turns them around so he has Peter backed up against the wall, and they stand there for long minutes making out, pressing and grinding against each other like teenagers. Peter can’t believe how stupidly turned on he is - they’re both fully dressed, for god’s sake. But his body has a mind of its own, is aflame with desire, and he finds himself moaning when they finally break apart.

Stiles’s pupils are blown wide, and his lips are cherry red and slick. Peter wants to devour him, wants to drop to his knees and take Stiles in his mouth and blow his mind. Stiles though, steps back, panting. “If we don’t stop, this suit’s gonna need dry-cleaning,” he says with a wry smile.

Peter’s honest to god _whines._ "Maybe we could just -" 

Stiles shakes his head, grinning. “ We could just nothing. Not gonna have our first time be against a changing room door. You’ll just have to wait ‘till the weekend.”

“Tease,” Peter grumbles.

“You’ll live,” Stiles says with a soft laugh. “I promise, it’ll be worth the wait.”

 _Yes,_ thinks Peter as he watches Stiles’s suit clad ass disappear back into the changeroom. _It will._

 

* * *

 

Peter’s booked them into the Roosevelt, and Stiles whistles when he sees their suite. “Niiice.” He takes a flying heap at the bed, landing with a muffled _oof_  as he bounces up and down on it.

“How old are you, six?” Peter takes their luggage and tips the staff member.

“Hey, I’ve never been somewhere this nice before. Cop’s salary, remember?” Stiles defends. “Let me enjoy it.”

Peter hangs their suit bags in the wardrobe and turns to face Stiles. “I can think of lots of ways we could both enjoy ourselves, since you like that bed so much,” he suggests, and drops down to lay next to Stiles. He shoots one hand out and snags Stiles around the waist, dragging him in and peppering tiny kisses along Stiles’ collarbone, before burying his face in the crook of his neck and scenting him. “What do you say, a little afternoon delight to relax us before this evening?” He kisses Stiles, slow and sweet, and wonders if he’ll ever get enough of the taste and the scent of him.

Stiles kisses him back, but as soon as Peter’s hands start to move south, he breaks away and sits up. “Nope, tonight’s our first proper date, and I don’t put out till after then.”

Peter pouts at the refusal. “You’re really going to make me wait, when we have all afternoon and this glorious bed?”

Stiles puts a hand under Peter’s chin and pulls him close for a soft kiss. “It’s only fair. I waited forever for you to get a clue and ask me out. So now you can wait a few more hours – consider it extended foreplay.”

“You do know that teasing me like this will make all my predatory instincts come to the fore,” Peter purrs, rolling them over so he has Stiles pinned under him.

“Oh, I know. Thrill of the chase, right?” Stiles smirks, and then, like the little shit that he is, he shimmies and squirms his way down the bed, out from underneath Peter, off the bed and out of reach. “Come on, we have a couple of hours to kill, and I wanna see the Walk of Fame. I'm getting my dad a mug.” Stiles looks back at Peter expectantly, and he’s so obviously excited at the prospect that Peter can’t say no.  

“Fine. We’ll go and be tourists. But those trashy souvenirs will all be criminally overpriced.”

Stiles spends an hour taking pictures and gawking, and he ends up with three shirts, four keyrings, and the coffee mug for his dad.

The trinkets are, indeed, all criminally overpriced, and Peter insists on buying them anyway, because he’s smitten.

 

* * *

 

When Peter puts his tux on, and gives Stiles his most dazzling smile, Stiles looks him up and down slowly before letting out a reverent, “Holy fuck.” He runs his hands down Peter’s lapels, and straightens his bowtie, half singing to himself, mumbling _I’d like to meet his tailor_. Peter quirks a brow when he catches the lyrics, but then Stiles distracts him with a filthy kiss, and another, and another, and they both have to straighten their ties again and adjust their erections before they can leave the room.  When Peter tries to steer Stiles back towards the bed, murmuring about _maybe if they’re quick_ , Stiles shakes his head and slips out of Peter’s grasp, twisty little bastard that he is.

“Extended foreplay, remember,” Stiles says with a wink.

Peter scowls, and tries to will his cock to behave, with limited success.

Extended foreplay sucks.

Peter watches their reflection in the mirrored elevator. They’re a strikingly handsome couple, and nobody looking at them would guess that Stiles has a handgun tucked into his shoulder holster. Peter’s promised the sheriff that whatever happens tonight, he’ll let Stiles handle it. He hopes like hell it was all idle threats, but from what he’s heard, Gerard Argent doesn’t fuck around. The alpha he doused with wolfsbane has lost most of his sight, can only see in shifted form, but there’s simply not enough proof linking it to Argent. He’s clever, and he plays dirty. Peter knows that tonight could be a perfect opportunity, if they’re lucky, (or unlucky), and Argent overplays his hand.  

The elevator dings, and as they step out, he puts Argent out of his mind and turns his attention back to Stiles, who’s staring at the waiting limo and saying, “You’re kidding me, right? That can’t be ours.”

“Of course it’s ours. Nothing but the best for our first date.” Peter grins and slides into the back seat, and Stiles joins him seconds later, scooting across so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“You really are a show pony, you know that, right?” Stiles doesn’t sound like he minds.

“Goes with the job, sweetheart.” Peter turns his head far enough that he can steal a kiss, and Stiles obliges him. They spend a good chunk of the ride to the awards groping at each other and exchanging kisses, until finally Stiles pulls away.

“So, you’re gonna behave if anything goes down, right? Leave it to me to handle it?” He asks for the fifth time that day.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I already told you, yes! Unless it can’t be avoided, I’ll keep my claws tucked away and play nice.”

“Good. Last thing I want is for you to end up in prison or dead.” Peter can tell from his tone that Stiles is deadly serious, and he notes the subtle changes in Stiles’s body language as they approach the venue. His spine straightens, his shoulders square, and his eyes are darting round the limo as though he’s already scanning for threats. Cop Stiles has arrived, and Peter still finds it sexy as hell, even though he knows it’s probably not the time or the place.

Still. He leans over and purrs in Stiles ear, “I do love it when you’re forceful, officer,” and Stiles’s composure slips, just for a moment, before he whacks Peter on the arm and tells him to save it for later. Peter smirks, satisfied.

They pull up at the awards, and just before they exit the limo, Peter says, “Don’t be nervous about the cameras. Just follow my lead.”

Stiles cocks a brow at him. “Please. The camera loves me.” He follows it, rather cryptically, with, “But I’m gonna fly under the radar now, so just go with it, okay? I’ll explain later.”

When they get out of the car, Peter leads, and Stiles follows close on his heels – too close. He stumbles and almost falls, and Peter has to grab a hold of him to help him keep his feet. Peter throws him a puzzled glance, but Stiles just laughs breathily, patting Peter’s face with his hand and staring at him with startled Bambi eyes. Peter wonders what the hell’s he’s up to.

Stiles makes sure to grip Peter’s arm tight, and he’s obviously distracted, looking every which way at once.  He points wildly several times, and is the poster boy for wide eyed wonder. Somehow though, he still manages to pose perfectly for the pictures of them together, even if he makes it look like dumb luck. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d almost say Stiles was being clumsy on purpose. “Sweetheart?” he asks in an undertone.

Stiles turns to him and honest to god _giggles_. “You shouldn’t have given me all that champagne!” he says loudly, and several people turn and grin at the sight of Peter Hale’s latest conquest - some fish out of water, wet behind the ears kid, who’s obviously starstruck and out of his league. Stiles staggers once more, and Peter slides a hand round his waist to steady him, hissing, “What are you doing?”

“Later,” Stiles hisses back, and leans into Peter’s side as they walk in together. A couple of people go to greet Peter, but Stiles drags him away, whining about needing to sit down. Peter gets some pitying looks and a few comments about pretty boys who won’t behave, and then they’re safely in their seats.

Once they’re seated, Stiles is all business again, scanning the crowd for threats. Nobody gives him a second look though, dismissing him as just another hanger on who’s been seduced by free drinks and bright lights, and Peter finally gets it.

Cop? Don’t be silly, there's no cop here. There’s just some drunk kid that Peter Hale's picked up, that he'll take home later and seduce, like he has so often before. Stiles has created himself the perfect smokescreen - nobody imagines that he’s any threat at all. Peter puts a hand under Stiles’s chin under the pretense of fixing his bow tie, and murmurs, “You’re a truly devious, creature.” 

Stiles doesn’t reply, just flutters his lashes innocently, but there’s a tiny smirk there, and Peter suddenly feels a lot more confident than he did before.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is suspiciously quiet during the first part of the evening, and Peter knows their table mates assume he’s just overwhelmed, but about half an hour in, he starts nudging the attractive young girl sitting next to him, and asking, ”Who’s that?” in an excited whisper, pointing to various people around the room. The whole table thinks he’s adorable, and happily fill him in on who’s who. Peter has to admire the clever way Stiles has found out exactly who he needs to keep an eye on, and he rewards him with a soft kiss on the cheek, although he dresses it up with, “Now, now, baby. Let the grownups talk.” That earns him a sharp kick to the shins, although the smile never leaves Stiles’s face.

“Sorry, _Daddy,_ ” he coos, and Peter gets several very judgemental stares.

They get through the first part of the evening without incident, and Peter can see Stiles starting to relax a little. He encourages it, flirting with him shamelessly.  They _are_ still on a date, after all. Stiles flirts right back, and Peter enjoys every minute of it, and tries to forget that there’s someone here out to get him.  

An hour and a half into the dinner, Peter checks his watch – time for him to go and get ready to present his awards. He leans forward, catching Stiles’s attention. “Would you like to watch the next part from backstage, baby?”

Stiles beams like a simpleton. “Really? You’re the best!”

Peter stands and takes’ Stiles’s hand, guiding him to the area backstage, and the threat rapidly seems very real, and very present. It’s half-lit back here, full of bodies and strangers and people shouting instructions, and Peter knows that any one of them could be out to get him. As if he can sense Peter’s unease, Stiles places a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”  

He gives a reassuring squeeze, and Peter knows it’s ridiculous that an apex predator like himself should be so reassured by the presence of a small town cop, but still, the tightness in his chest recedes enough for him to breathe normally and take instruction from the stage manager. The man casts a glance over Stiles, but Peter simply says, “He’s with me.” It’s not uncommon for dates to get the backstage treatment, so the manager nods, tells Stiles to stay out of the way, and puts Peter on his mark at the side of the stage.

He strides out, and even with the threat in the back of his mind, Peter soaks up the applause. He’s well known in ‘wolf fashion circles, and he’s only become more popular with his stance against PAWS.  He introduces himself, makes a quip about how it’s nice of them to applaud, since lately he’s been ‘ _painted the villain’_ in the fur trade. It earns him a hearty laugh, because who doesn’t love it when someone makes a joke at their own expense?

He presents the next three awards, charming the audience thoroughly and though he says so himself, it’s a flawless performance. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Stiles at the side of the stage, and even though Stiles barely breathes the words, Peter still picks it up when he says, “ _Peter Hale, he’s so hot right now.”_ He catches Stiles's eye as he escorts the last winner to the side of the stage, and mouths _Zoolander? Really?_  Stiles just snickers.

Peter turns and goes to leave the stage, and that’s when it all goes to hell.  Just before he steps out of public view, a man runs toward him, and there’s a cold, wet, and horribly familiar sensation as red paint splashes over him. This lot has more ‘bane in it than the previous batch, and Peter’s eyes start to burn and sting. “What the _fuck_?” he sputters out, half blinded and furious.

Someone thrusts a towel into his hands, and a blurry figure grips his arm tight. A female voice says, “Just follow me, Mr Hale,” and then she’s tugging at his arm and trying to lead him away. Alarm bells start to ring, and Peter digs in his heels, because this is wrong, and he can’t _see_ , but whoever the hell it is _smells_ all kinds of dangerous. “Stiles?” he calls out. He has no idea what’s happening, and he’s never felt so helpless in his life.

The woman continues to try and drag him away, but he refuses to move, and she’s no match for his strength. “Have it your way. I’ll do it here,” she hisses, and then there’s something sharp and cold pressing against his throat.  

 _“STILES!!”_ Peter bellows, desperate.

He’s not exactly sure what happens next, because he _still can’t see_ , but he can hear just fine. So he hears it clearly when Stiles shouts, “ _Oh, fuck no, bitch!”_ followed by the sound of someone running full tilt.

There’s a thump and an _oof_ , the woman’s no longer touching him, and whatever was against his neck is gone.  He hears a solid thud, like a body hitting the floor.  It’s followed by a metallic click and what sounds like a gun being cocked, then the crunch of bone and Stiles swearing a blue streak. Peter scrubs the towel over his eyes, desperate to see what’s happening, and he finally regains enough vision to take in the scene in front of him.

It’s a shitshow.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

What greets Peter is the sight of red paint splattered all over the stage, and Stiles sitting astride a blonde woman, pinning her none too gently to the the floor.  Her hands are cuffed behind her, and Stiles has a gun at her head. He has blood dribbling out of one nostril.  Peter guesses that the crunch he heard must have been Stiles getting a face full of the woman’s head.  Stiles uses his free hand to hold something out to Peter, waggling it back and forth. Peter blinks, focuses, and takes hold of the item, which turns out to be a large, unfriendly looking syringe. “She was about to inject you.”

Peter sniffs at the syringe, and suddenly his delicious steak dinner is in danger of coming back up. It’s wolfsbane, strong enough that the scent makes his nostrils burn, even worse than the paint did. He swallows as he considers the implications. One quick jab, and by the time anyone figured out what was wrong with him, it would have been too late.

Stiles says, “I’m guessing the lab will confirm it’s pure. The paint was just a distraction so she could get her hands on you, but I recognized her from photos.” He turns his attention back to the writhing, snarling woman. “Didn’t I, Ms Argent? Even with that shitty-assed nose job, which I hope you got a refund on by the way, because it makes you look like a fucking pug.” Even at a time like this, Stiles can’t help but run his mouth. Peter would laugh, if he wasn’t still shaking.

The woman, who’s still struggling under Stiles, snarls out, “Fuck you!”

Stiles presses the gun against her temple a little more firmly. “Now, now, Katie. That’s no way to talk to a police officer.” He twists around, and pulls his badge out, dangling it in front of her face. “You might not be in my jurisdiction, but the thing about us cops is, we make pretty fucking reliable witnesses.” He leans in and adds, “Especially when it’s _attempted murder,_ you piece of shit.”

The expression on her face is priceless, even if Peter has to squint to see it properly.

 

* * *

 

 

The awards show comes to a screeching halt, obviously. The police and an ambulance arrive within minutes. Peter’s tended to by the EMTs, who check him over, wash the contaminated paint off his skin and flush out his eyes, and he can finally, finally, see clearly.

His tux is a write off, but one of the models brings him their jeans and a v necked tee. It’s not a suit, but at least it’s designer, and Peter thanks the young man profusely. Once he’s changed, he goes in search of Stiles. When he finds him, the first thing Stiles does is run a hand through Peter’s hair which is, once again, shockingly red. “Aw, your hair.”

Peter gazes fondly at Stiles - this brave, clever man, who leapt to his defense, took Kate down effortlessly, and saved his life. Peter wishes he’d been able to see it. As he regards Stiles, takes in his red nose and the blood smeared on one cheek, Peter thinks he’s never looked better. He pulls Stiles close so they’re standing with their bodies pressed together, but it’s not sexual. He just needs to hold someone right now. Stiles lets himself be held. “You okay there, wolfy?” he asks, his voice tender.

“You saved my life,” Peter mumbles into Stiles’s neck, and he thinks that he might just stay snuggled up here for the rest of the night, or the week, or possibly his life.

Stiles doesn’t look like he’s letting go anytime soon, either. He wraps his long legs around Peter’s hips, settles his arms around his neck, and clings like a baby sloth, trusting Peter to take his weight. “Jesus, if I hadn’t gotten to her in time…” he lets out a shaky breath.

“I know, sweetheart,” Peter whispers.  “I don’t want to think about it, not now.” 

Maybe not ever.

He pulls Stiles closer, and they spend long minutes curled around each other as their heart rates steady and their breathing slows. Finally, Stiles loosens his grip, just a little. He nudges at Peter. “Just so you know, worst first date ever,” he says with a tiny smile.

Peter manages a chuckle at that. “I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart, I promise. But right now, I have something vital to take care of.” Peter runs a hand through his ruined hair. “Still damp - excellent. It may not be too late,” he mutters. He prises Stiles out of his arms, sets him down gently, and strides out into the still packed venue, scanning the crowd. Nobody’s been allowed to leave until the police have interviewed them all, so Peter has no problem finding what he’s looking for.

The upside to being attacked at a fashion awards show is that there’s no shortage of hairdressers eager to offer Peter their services. One hijacked dressing room, two hours, several shampoos and a dye job later, his hair is restored to its former glory. Peter has a sneaking suspicion that Stiles has taken the opportunity to take some horribly unflattering pictures, but honestly? He doesn’t really care.

Right now, Stiles can do anything he damned well pleases.

 

* * *

 

 

Sitting in the chair getting his hair fixed provides Peter with a window of downtime he desperately needs - it’s a chance to find his feet a little, to work through the fact that someone wanted him dead. It doesn’t take him as long to get over it as he thought, mainly because while he’s sitting there being fussed over and told in hushed tones that he’s _so brave_ , Peter gets distracted watching Stiles at work.

It’s something to see, the way Stiles talks to the officers on the scene, the venue security, and the event organizers, demanding to know how a verified threat like Kate Argent gained access to the venue. He’s forceful and unrelenting, and it…does things to Peter’s nether regions. It doesn’t help that Stiles has stripped out of his jacket, undone his bowtie, and loosened the top three buttons of his shirt. When he rolls his sleeves up as well, Peter has to ask for a glass of water, suddenly thirsty – in his fitted shirt, with his hair mussed where he’s been running his hands through it, Stiles is beyond delicious, and Peter _wants_ him.

The hairdresser’s done, so Peter stands and walks over, covering the distance between them in three or four long strides. He abruptly lifts Stiles off his feet and into a crushing hug. “My god, you’re hot when you’re being a cop,” he growls.

Stiles lets out a startled laugh. “Someone just tried to off you, and _that’s_ your take? I’m hot when I’m being a cop?”

“Yes,” Peter answers shortly. “I want you.” Stiles opens his mouth, probably to make some smartass remark, but whatever it was, it’s lost when Peter kisses him before he has a chance to speak. Peter revels in the weight of Stiles in his arms and backs them up against a nearby wall so he can carry on kissing Stiles, deep and hungry, the way he was meant to be kissed.  Stiles grabs the back of Peter’s head and tangles his fingers in his hair, and when they pull apart, he pants out, “Hotel?”

Peter doesn’t answer, just grabs Stiles by the hand and drags him towards the door.

 

* * *

 

When they get in the limo Stiles doesn’t hesitate to slide over and straddle Peter’s lap, apparently not caring what the driver thinks. He slides a hand inside the collar of Peter’s v neck. “I like this look on you,” he observes, before diving in for a frankly filthy kiss, which Peter returns with gusto.  

It’s only a short drive, which is just as well, because by the time they get there it’s taking all Peter’s willpower not to shove his hands inside his jeans and stroke himself. Stiles isn’t much better – Peter can feel the tell-tale bulge in his suit pants as Stiles grinds against him. They tumble out of the limo and into the elevator, all the while touching each other, unable to keep their hands to themselves. All the leftover adrenaline chasing through Peter’s system is making itself known as pure, unadulterated lust, and he suspects Stiles is the same, if the scent of arousal rolling off him is anything to go by.

Once they make it to their room, Stiles is quick to slip his hands up under Peter’s shirt, tugging it off over his head. He sucks in a breath when he sees Peter shirtless, and licks his lips. He reaches for the button on Peter’s borrowed jeans, but Peter catches his wrist in one hand, and shakes his head. “Ah ah, sweetheart. You promised I could peel you out of that suit.”

Stiles grins. “I did, didn’t I?” He stands with his arms spread wide, like an offering. “I’m all yours.”

Peter takes a moment to savor the anticipation, but only a moment – he’s too tightly wound for there to be any more delays. He steps forward and lays a hand on Stiles’s face, drawing off the pain from his nose, and Stiles lets out a tiny sigh of relief. That taken care of, Peter moves on to unbuttoning Stiles’s shirt. He untucks the shirt and slips it off Stiles’s shoulders, letting it fall on the floor. Stiles is just as gorgeous as Peter thought he would be – all lean muscle with a smattering of dark chest hair, a stark contrast to his pale skin. Peter leans in and kisses along Stiles’s throat, which earns him a sharp intake of breath.  He runs his hands down the planes of Stiles’s back, and breathes in the smell of him, filling his senses until there’s nothing but _Stiles._

Stiles tips his head back further, and Peter lets out a low moan. All that _neck_ , long and pale and criminally untouched. Peter needs to change that right now. He kisses along the column of flesh, and then latches onto the dip in Stiles’s collarbone, sucking and worrying at the spot, marking his claim as Stiles hisses out, “God, yes!”

When he’s satisfied the urge to mark Stiles as his own, Peter moves on to Stiles’s belt buckle, undoing it and making short work of the button and zipper as well before shoving Stiles’s dress pants and boxers down to his knees.

Stiles has a nice, thick cock, just as Peter suspected from feeling it pressed against him in the limo. He wraps a hand around it and slides it up and down, once, twice, and Stiles lets out little _ah, ah,_ noises as he does so. Stiles’s hand lands on top of his, stilling him, and Peter frowns, but Stiles shakes his head wordlessly and points down, to where his pants are tangled around his legs. “Wanna take them off.”

It’s the work of seconds for him to toe his shoes off and shuck out of his pants, and Peter takes the chance to strip out of his jeans as well. There’s a moment where they stand there, admiring each other, and then it’s as if a switch has been flipped. They fall into each other, all hands and filthy kisses and desperation. Peter pushes Stiles backwards and they stumble-walk to the bed, Stiles moaning and Peter growling lowly, his wolf coming to the fore. Stiles’s back hits the bed with a whump, and Peter’s on top of him immediately, kissing him and rubbing their naked bodies together. Their cocks, both leaking, brush against each other, making Peter’s breath catch in his throat. He has just enough presence of mind to ask, “Yes?” as he wraps a hand around both of them.

“Yeah, yes, please,” Stiles babbles, as Peter uses his thumb to spread precum along their lengths, a quick and dirty lube job – he doesn’t have the patience for anything else. Stiles is bucking into his hand already, and Peter grips them firmly and starts to work the flesh, slow, deliberate strokes that make them both groan with pleasure. His own cock is straining, balls drawn up tight, ready to explode. The way Stiles is writhing and panting under him isn’t helping, and he has to try counting backwards from a hundred in an effort not to embarrass himself.

He can feel Stiles’s cock throbbing in his hand, and instinctively knows he’s close. Peter only gets as far as eighty seven before he gives up and gives in, speeding up his movements, chasing his release. Stiles’s hips snap up into his touch, and he lets out a needy whine. The sound sends Peter hurtling over the edge, coming in great messy spurts between them with a strangled cry. Stiles’s back arches up moments later, and he adds to the mess.

Peter strokes them gently both through it, until the touches become too much. He rolls away to the side and flops down next to Stiles with a satisfied hum. Stiles echoes the sound, and they lay there, quietly blissed out.

It wasn’t what Peter had imagined, and he hopes Stiles wasn’t disappointed. He clears his throat. “That…wasn’t quite the seduction I had planned,” he says quietly. It’s part apology, part - he doesn’t quite know what – a plea for another chance, maybe?

Stiles lets out a huff of air that might have been a laugh if he’d bothered to try. “It was awesome. I'm amazed I lasted that long. And we have the rest of the night. Now shhh. Nap time.” And with that, he curls up close with an arm splayed over Peter’s belly. Peter smiles to himself, reassured. Stiles is right. They _do_ have all night. Tomorrow morning, too. And all the nights and mornings after that. Peter drifts into a pleasant daydream, thinking about all the things he’d like to do with Stiles. He might even nap, though he can’t be sure.

Eventually, Stiles starts to squirm, and nudges at Peter, indicating the drying jizz on their bellies. “Shower?” Peter hums his agreement, and they manage to drag themselves out of bed and into the bathroom, where they rub soap all over each other and trade soft kisses. It’s nothing like Peter had planned for the night, but it turns out it doesn’t matter.

It’s perfect.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s woken the next morning by a knock on the door. Stiles continues to sleep soundly, so after sneaking a last look at his naked ass before pulling a sheet over him, Peter grabs a robe and goes to see who it is. He peers through the peep hole, and sees a man in a suit with a badge that says _A Graham – Manager._ Peter decides to trust him on the basis that he actually does vaguely recognize him from other times he’s stayed. If he remembers correctly, the man’s a fan of Peter’s belts. Also, he’s holding what looks to be a pot of coffee on a tray.

Peter opens the door, and sure enough, the man hands the tray over. “Compliments of the hotel, Mr Hale.”  Peter stands there, unsure what he’s supposed to do now.

He settles on, “Thank you. I’d invite you in, but my companion’s still sleeping.”

A Graham (Andrew? Arthur? Peter _almost_ remembers) nods in understanding. “Of course. After the terrible time you had last night, I’m not surprised.”

For a horrible, sleep-addled second Peter thinks he somehow knows about him and Stiles and their messy handjob, and he’s about to protest that it wasn’t terrible at all, thank you very much, but then his brain catches up. “Oh, you mean the attack. Yes, it was quite awful.”

The manager clasps his hands together. “As a gesture of goodwill, the Roosevelt would like to offer you the use of the suite for rest of the week, free of charge. We know you'll probably have police business in town, and I thought it would make things easier for you.”

Peter smiles warmly. “It really will make things easier. That’s very generous of you. I’ll confer with my friend and get back to you.”

The man beams. “Oh, my pleasure! Just let me know.”

“I really do appreciate the offer…Anthony,” Peter says, taking a stab in the dark.

Anthony’s smile widens, so Peter figures he guessed right. The man leaves with an assurance that he’ll send breakfast up shortly, and Peter wanders back towards the bedroom, still holding the tray. He thinks maybe he’ll wake Stiles with coffee, and kisses, and let things progress from there.

Stiles though, is sitting up at the table with his phone pressed to his ear, grinning madly. “Oh, that’s fucking gold, Pops. Wait ‘till I tell Peter.” He sees Peter and gives him a thumbs up, then mimes some complicated charade that Peter can’t make head nor tail of.  Stiles talks to his dad for a while longer, and Peter hears “Yeah, I know. End of the week. I will. Thanks Dad.”

When Stiles hangs up, he swoops in on the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup before saying, “Sooo, wanna hear the good news, or the good news?”  He barrels on without letting Peter reply. “So, you know the guy who got blinded by PAWS?  Turns out it was the exactly same blend of wolfsbane that was in the syringe, so they can link the attacks.”

“So, Kate was behind that one as well?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope! This is where it gets great. They tried to pin it on her, said it was such a unique blend it must have the same source.  Kate turned around and dumped the blame on Gerard. Said it was all his idea, told them exactly where to find him, and handed over proof that he masterminded the whole thing, along with a list of future victims. I think she was hoping for a plea bargain, but Dad said there’s no way that’ll happen. Cops went to Gerard’s place with a warrant, found everything they could ever want to convict both of them, and picked him up half an hour ago. He and Kate have been locked up awaiting trial, no possibility of bail for either of them.”

Peter feels a weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying lift off his shoulders. “You’re sure?”

Stiles grins. “Absolutely. Straight from the mouth of the Beacon Hills Sheriff.” He takes a sip of his coffee and then adds, “Oh! And I have the rest of the week off. Dad said I’d earned it. So, if you wanted to maybe, try that first date again? I’m free.”

Peter leans over and takes the cup from Stiles’s hands, leaning in for a kiss. “How would you like to spend the rest of the week here? The hotel’s giving us the suite as some sort of gesture. “

Stiles lets Peter have his kiss, then takes the coffee back, cradling the cup protectively in case Peter tries to steal it again. “Is it going to be all sexytimes and room service, or will we get to leave the hotel?”

Peter smirks. “Well leave the hotel. Eventually.”

Stiles drains the cup and picks up his phone. “Hey, Pops. Listen, we’re gonna stay here for a couple more days. Can you water my plants?”

 

* * *

 

 

After breakfast, Peter takes his time, touching and teasing every inch of Stiles' s delightfully soft skin until Stiles is begging for him to _just fuck him already_ , and then he does. Twice. It’s slow and gentle and everything he’d imagined. He doesn’t have to count backwards from 100 this time. Later he fucks Stiles in the shower, and then again while he's pressed up against a full-length mirror. Stiles tells him it’s the best sex he’s ever had, and his heartbeat doesn’t stutter.

In the evening, they light the fire and Peter makes love to him on the bearskin rug, because Stiles begs him to.  “Come on, it’s such a cliché - you even said so yourself, your goal was me naked and begging under you on a bearskin. We’ve gotta do it! We owe it to couples everywhere to live out the fantasy!”  And honestly, how can Peter be expected to say no to that?

(Afterwards, Stiles admits that it wasn’t that great - the fur was scratchy, and it smelled kinda funky. He tells Peter that maybe it’s one of those things that’s better _kept_ as a fantasy. Peter nods in understanding, carries Stiles back to the nice, comfy bed, and blows him there.)

 

* * *

 

They do leave the hotel.

 

Eventually.

 

 


End file.
